The anachronism amuses him, but he's not above slipping into old slang every now and again. "Some things remain classics. There've been a few minor improvements, but the police are using what I've used for decades precisely because they're good." He reaches for the tea and takes a long swallow, still recovering from the coughing. "There are bigger and more dangerous guns, but they're also harder to carry and aim. A blade, on the other hand, will always be an easily concealed and handy weapon. They're around."

As she reads, he rolls the name around in his mind. "Menz. You'll need a birthdate." After a moment of rummaging in his pockets he finds a very ordinary, battered leather wallet, and tosses it to the table before her. The ID just inside is for one James Rettigue, aged seventy-four. If she adds two decades she'll have the more correct number, but his intention is simply to let her have a look at the information he'll need to put on it. He is not about to directly ask her weight or her age.